*
when dad died they
clothed him for funeral

his hands so beautiful
crossed over his chest
they were the only thing

talking of him to me

I took a picture my
relatives anger rose
I could not avoid that

I haven’t seen it once

that picture it’s hiding
away to be gazed at on
a day when I’ll accept

distance or enjoy
closeness where
will my hands

go when I die

not on my chest
nor on my belly
for that short

time of the viewing
a sense of lack

of no more breath

a heaviness not favoring
digestion nor straight aside
as a soldier of whose army
.
.

.

.

.